The Battle of the Bones: Interruptions
by everythingsherlockiou
Summary: This is the first chapter of my fanfiction, which is a Sherlock/Bones crossover. The Jeffersonian Institute has asked Sherlock and John to help them out in one of their cases, which turns out to be dangerous as Sherlock and Temperance try to both flaunt their intellectual prowesses against each other. I hope you like it!


It was summer in Washington D.C. Birds flitted about and sang of their adventures around the trees, and squirrels dashed boldly from tree trunk to tree trunk. The children were out of school and small children could be seen squealing and tearing around parks, teenagers waltzing around the city streets and hailing a taxi cab once in a while. The trees were varying shades of brilliant emeralds and provided cool, refreshing shade for any passerby.

At the airport, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were just getting off their plane from London. It had been a long and tedious flight, for a small infant had wailed and wailed for what seemed like half the flight. John had thought to bring earplugs because he had been in a similar situation before, and Sherlock had pestered John relentlessly until John had finally given up.

Now, they walked through the port, having gotten their bags from the belt. Neither of them had ever been in Washington D.C. before, so they were both hopelessly lost until they saw a large man and a cold-looking woman holding a sign with both their names.

John looked relieved as he trudged up to the couple, smiling crookedly. Sherlock trailed behind warily as he stared at the tall, pretty woman skeptically. She was staring back unflinchingly and startlingly coldly, and it threw Sherlock off balance for a moment. But he soon recovered and continued to follow John with his cool facade.

"Sherlock Holmes?" asked the man, looking at John.

John smiled. "No, I'm-"

"That would be me." Sherlock stepped forward and flicked his coat around him with a twitch of his wrist. "Sherlock Holmes," he said indifferently and he stared at the man with a steady, steely gaze.

The man held out an outstretched hand. He was professional looking, wearing a neat black suit that complimented him nicely. He had a square, strong jaw and dark brown eyes. He gave the impression of a classic hardass FBI agent that strived for justice. "I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, this is my partner Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian and we're here-"

"The Jeffersonian?" interrupted Sherlock rudely. He completely disregarded Booth, whose eyebrows shot skyward and looked a bit insulted at being interrupted.

Brennan nodded confirmation. "Yes," she said curtly. Her voice sounded clipped and professional, and had an undertone of self-superiority. "I work at the Jeffersonian Institute in the forensic anthropology area. I identify-"

"Dead human remains from only bones to catch murderers. Yes, I know," Sherlock said, interrupting again. He sounded interested, as though he were on one of his wild, "interesting" cases. John thought he sounded a bit too excited.

Booth whistled quietly and glanced sideways at Brennan. She looked like she'd just been challenged and regarded Sherlock as though he were a small child. "Do you interrupt people often? Because in the prehistoric tribe of Morocco, they used to cut out the tongues of members who spoke out of turn." She looked at him with a raised eyebrow; a silent but severe challenge.

Sherlock looked outraged and incredulous, as if he could not believe the woman standing in front of him.

Behind him, John couldn't help to suppress a grin. Never, in all the time he had known Sherlock, had Sherlock met an intellectual match, a challenge, save Irene Adler.

Then Sherlock spoke in a voice John typically associated with Sherlock humiliating someone verbally or wounding them intellectually. "Yes, that is all very interesting. But we are not in Morocco and this is the modern day, so that is hardly relevant," he said briskly and his harsh tone mirrored Brennan's; sharp like icicles falling from a roof to injure someone.

Brennan scoffed incredulously and actually looked wounded, and looking like her stony mask was cracking. She turned to Booth for assistance but he was exchanging grins and snickers with John. Outraged, she hissed, "Booth, what are you doing?"

Booth snickered some more with John, who looked like he was dying of suppressed laughter. Both Brennan and Sherlock glared furiously at their companions.

"Booth," Brennan said louder and finally was granted Booth's attention.

"Hi, Bones," he said brightly and smiled. "You ready to go back to the Jeffersonian?"

Brennan scoffed again and rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable." Then she stalked away in an unknown direction, crossing her arms and looking around huffily.

Booth looked after her with open arms, surrendered. "What?" he called but she only ignored him. Shrugging, he turned to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock was looking smug and triumphant while John also looked after Brennan somewhat apologetically.

"Well, let's go chase after her and go the Jeffersonian," Booth said. He motioned for them to follow him with a wave of his hand.

"Actually, if it's alright, could we stop by our hotel to check in? We had better drop our stuff off," John asked.

Booth nodded and tapped his pen on his badge, an unconscious habit. "Oh, yeah, right. Well, we'll do that then go to the Jeffersonian.

"Thanks."

Sherlock and John gathered their luggage together again and trailed after Booth in the winding crowd. Booth whistled lightheartedly as they went and Sherlock and John had the impression Booth was like this often. When they reached Booth's car in the parking lot, they all saw Brennan sulking in the passenger seat with crossed arms and tight fists.

As Booth unlocked the car, he tapped on the window and Brennan looked up. Upon seeing them, she merely rolled her eyes and looked out her window opposite to Booth.

"Still sulking?" he asked her when he opened the door and unlocked the car.

She opened her mouth to speak but Booth closed his door. "I'm not sulking!" she shouted and her voice was muffled, which weakened the effect she wanted.

The car trunk was opened and Booth helped haul the luggage into the back. He slammed the door shut when everything was inside and told Sherlock and John to hop in the back. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. As they pulled out of the lot and onto the street, he chanced a glance at Brennan. She caught his eye and looked at him exasperatedly and somewhat expectantly. Booth only reached out and squeezed her hand reassuringly, and returned his hand to the wheel.

John and Sherlock noticed this and looked at each other meaningfully, both with raised eyebrows.

The silence that filled the car was awkward and cool, and nobody dared break through the dangerous mix of resentment and self-satisfaction that hung the air. It was only when Booth asked which hotel John and Sherlock were staying in that words were spoken. Throughout the entire car ride to the hotel, nobody spoke and eventually, Sherlock grew bored. He started to play with his phone, though what he was doing, John didn't know because Sherlock didn't care for "trivial games ordinary people wasted their minds away with."

"Here we are," Booth said and pulled up in front of the doors to the lobby of the hotel. John and Sherlock were surprised when Booth killed the engine and hopped out of the car with them.

"There's no need to come with us, it's alright," said John.

"Oh, yes there is. I don't want to be stuck with her when she's in one of her moods." He jerked a thumb behind him and gave them an expression of anxiety.

Sherlock started to chuckle but John silenced him with a stern look.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'll get the luggage," he said quickly and went to open the trunk. John nodded approvingly at him as he passed.

"Bones! Hey Bones, come with us to check in," called Booth and tapped on the window again.

Brennan looked at him steadily through the glass and looked like she was contemplating her choices. After a moment of silent thought, she sighed heavily and clambered out of the car.

"There we go," Booth said happily and grinned. "Great! Let's go."

Once in the lobby, Sherlock and John left their luggage to go to the front desk to check in. Booth and Brennan stood a couple feet away, accompanied by the baggage.

Brennan was scolding Booth about not backing her up with the Moroccan tribe dispute, when Booth heard Sherlock tell the front desk attendant that he and John only needed one room, instead of two. He held a hand to silence Brennan and she dwindled into silence to join Booth in their eavesdropping.

"Only one room? Why would two men only need one room?" asked Booth lowly and looked at Brennan for enlightenment.

"Because they're a couple, Booth." Brennan sounded annoyed at being forced to state the obvious.

"You mean they're gay?"

"Yes," said Sherlock as he strolled up to them, his hands clasped behind his back.

Both Brennan and Booth jumped, startled. Booth looked open mouthed, while Brennan had a bashful blush creeping up her hollow cheeks.

"John and I are romantically involved. Is there something wrong with that?" Sherlock looked at them steadily and raised his chin defiantly.

Booth looked horrified. "No-"

"No, of course not-"

"We were only curious. That's all. Good for you. That's great!" Booth rambled, like when he feels uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say something else but stopped when he saw Sherlock's expression. His brows were furrowed over his blue eyes and he looked a bit confused, though he regarded the pair like they were a pair of strange specimen he had never come upon before.

"Hm" was all he said before he turned to face John, who was walking towards them with two room keys in his hand.

As the four of them climbed into the elevator, both Booth and Brennan noticed Sherlock slip his hand into John's. At this, Sherlock threw them a questioning glance and they both blushed and studied their feet intensely as though they held all the secrets of the universe.

They rode up in silence. John looked around curiously like he was waiting for someone to say something, but didn't say anything himself. The elevator went ding and the doors slid open, mercifully releasing Booth and Brennan from the awkwardness of Sherlock's gaze.

"I'll help with that," Booth offered when Sherlock left the elevator unceremoniously along with John and all their luggage.

"Selfish bastard." John took one bag in each hand. "He _insisted_ that we bring all his science equipment, and now he doesn't even help," he huffed.

"I am still within earshot, John," called Sherlock's deep voice from down the hall.

"I know," John called back.

Nothing was to be heard from Sherlock's end of the hall but there was a click from a door swinging shut. Upon hearing this, John sighed. He stalked up to the room where Sherlock had disappeared into and knocked lightly on the door with his knuckles. Sherlock must have pickpocketed John while in the elevator because they were no longer in John's breast pocket. "Sherlock, open the door."

The door jerked open but was stopped from swinging open by the chain connecting the door and the wall. "Oh, I don't think so John," said Sherlock lowly. He was not to be seen in the crack of the door but his voice drifted mysteriously from the darkness that filled the room. "I'm too much of a _selfish bastard_."

John swore lightly. "Sherlock. Open the door or I'm going to chuck all your science equipment out the window," he said in a flat, calm voice. "And then I'll make you go pick up the pieces by yourself."

Sherlock drifted into a thoughtful silence like he was actually considering his options. John was about to yell at Sherlock when a defeated "Fine" came from the door. The door was slammed shut and jingling if the chain was heard before the door swung open to reveal a disgusted Sherlock.

"How nice of you to let us in," John remarked dryly.

"Careful." Sherlock went to shut the door again but John's foot snapped forward and stopped the door. He gave Sherlock a warning look and was rewarded with an eye roll.

Behind them, Booth and Brennan watched silently. Booth looked as though he were biting back laughter and Brennan looked skeptical.

"You need to hurry putting your things away because I'm needed at the Jeffersonian," said Brennan loudly, interrupting John and Sherlock's witty banter.

"Correct me if I am wrong, Dr. Brennan-which I'm not-I was under the impression that I was called here by the Jeffersonian to take a look at a case. Your case. So doesn't that mean that _I _am needed at the Jeffersonian?" Sherlock asked coolly, acid coloring his voice as he stared at Brennan lazily like he was annoyed at her ignorance.

Brennan's expression was one of horrified astonishment and fiery outrage. She looked like Sherlock might have slapped her. Anger and hatred seemed to begin to pulse off of her in waves.

Booth looked unbelievably at Sherlock as if to ask '_How the hell do you get off?_' and seemed to groan inwardly, as though sensing an oncoming storm of rage and ridicule.

"Of course we need to hurry because _both_ of you are needed. Now, shut up, Sherlock and help me take in the damn bags," John ordered Sherlock swiftly, viciously. His stern, snappy tone held absolutely no room for negotiations or protests, so Sherlock reluctantly complied and helped him drag luggage into the room.

When they returned from the room, Brennan had fled the hall and was nowhere to be seen. John thought she must have ran away the moment Sherlock's back was turned. Against the wall leaned Booth, whose shoulders sagged and he looked tired.

People who usually encountered Sherlock and the destruction and humiliation he left in his wake usually tended to look as Booth did afterwards.

John sighed sadly and shook his head disappointedly. He shot Sherlock a disappointed glare that pierced Sherlock like an arrow through his stomach and made him feel empty with raw guilt. John walked away with his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched while Sherlock stared after him longingly, sadly.

Suddenly there were hands grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and shoving him viciously to the wall, rattling Sherlock's brain and causing black stars to spark in his vision. The hands snatched his coat collar and scarf in handfuls and shoved his body against the wall ferociously again. Sherlock tried to blink the stars away but they only continued to flare and make his vision blurrier.

"Listen, buddy," growled a deep, angry voice. The voice was screaming of white fury and uncontrollable rage. The hands were rough and trembled with anger like they were mere moments from grasping Sherlock's neck and wringing it savagely.

For a fleeting moment, a quick spark of fear fluttered in Sherlock's rib cage, near his heart, and when he inhaled, his breath hitched. But when he realized it was Booth, the temporary fear that surged through him snuffed out like a candle.

"Let go of me," demanded Sherlock firmly and pierced his ice blue stare on Booth's dark one loathsomely.

"_Shut up_," hissed Booth and Sherlock's skull pounded against the wall again with a dull thud that vibrated through his head and rang in his ears. "Don't treat my partner that way, got it? Don't you _ever_-" he hammered Sherlock again, "-talk that way to her again, you hear me?"

The two men were locked in a rigid glare of steel on flint, both had a loathsome expression twisting their features grotesquely.

A vindictive feeling rose up in Sherlock like ice creeping up his veins and closed in around his heart. No compassionate thought was present in his mind, no thought of apologizing. A bubble of a laugh rose up in his throat and pushed its way past his lips. It rumbled deep in his chest at first, but then climbed up his throat and was released into the bitter air around him. He laughed like a madman that was not forced up against a wall by a man remarkably larger than him.

A choking noise of disgust ripped through Booth and he struck Sherlock. The slap snapped through the air and echoed like a ringing bell, hanging in the air.

"_Do-you-understand-me_?" The words were spat at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his head to the side lazily and gazed at Booth sideways in a terribly shrewd, guarded, intelligent way that chilled Booth to his bones.

"Yes, I understand." Sherlock's voice was one of impatience and boredom.

The iron grip on Sherlock's collar was released and Booth immediately stalked off down the hall, clenching and unclenching his fists as he went.  
Sherlock gazed after him. His spine was rod-straight and he was as still as a statue, until Booth turned the corner and he heard the elevator doors close. His throat itched with the lingering tingle Booth's hands left. He coughed roughly and cleared his throat, attempting to rid himself of the prickling feeling. Sherlock did not feel guilt at what sharp words he had thrown at Brennan but a sinking sensation tarried deep in his gut because of the disappointment he'd caused John.

Perhaps Brennan did not deserve what Sherlock had hurled at her; hostility was simply an instinct, a knee-jerk reaction to any person he encountered. It was a result of something he had taught himself long ago, back before his adolescent years when he was but a small child in primary school. John was slowly beginning to enlighten Sherlock and teach him that hostility was not an answer to people who thought him a freak. He felt like a hypocrite.

Now, Sherlock did feel guilt at taunting Brennan.

Sighing despairingly, he flicked his coat around him like a comforting blanket with a twitch of his wrist. He slid his hands into his pockets and stared down at his feet as he strolled troubledly towards the hotel. Once inside, he pressed the L for lobby and straightened to his full height of elegance and grace. The stone facade he wore almost constantly snuck onto his face and the elevator doors closed in front of him, shielding his dark, dangerous encounter with Seeley Booth.

Inspiration: Die Alone by Ingrid Michaelson, Glass by Ingrid Michaelson, 1901 by Birdy


End file.
